


Typhlotic

by PepperPrints



Category: Marvel 616
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-23
Updated: 2013-02-23
Packaged: 2017-12-03 08:11:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/696149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PepperPrints/pseuds/PepperPrints
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Matt would have expected Frank to find a hospital and demand medical attention at gunpoint sooner than ask Daredevil for assistance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Typhlotic

**Author's Note:**

> For 31_days. Prompt: This is a special way of being afraid. Turns out I mistook the Saturday prompt for Friday... so I just spaced it out over two days and accidentally wrote a lot.
> 
> Frank's injuries are from the beginning of Rucka's run, but just taken a bit further.

He woke to the sound of shattering glass.

 

Matt pulled himself from bed and got to his feet. Anyone who knew who he was wouldn't have dared to try breaking and entering – especially so gracelessly. The sheer amount of noise would have woken up any ordinary man easily, much less one without fear.

 

Taking his cane in hand, he cautiously stepped out towards the source of the sound. Whoever had crashed into his house was far from subtle, but that didn't mean they weren't dangerous. Brawn could be just as threatening even without brains, despite all common phrase to tell the difference.

 

His bare feet made no noise as he entered the main room. Given his silence approach, it understandable that his intruder seemed as shocked as Matt was to find him. His sightless eyes – uncovered, since he didn't bother with his glasses after waking – widened and he heard the man's heartbeat spike.

 

That heartbeat; he'd recognize it anywhere. That noise was just as concerning as the scent of too much blood and something toxic.

 

“Castle?”

 

–

 

He absolutely reeked of blood. How much of it was his own, and how much belonged to someone else, was lost on Matt. Right now, that little detail stood out on the forefront of his mind, but there were greater concerns than that.

 

Like having the Punisher bleeding out in his kitchen.

 

He should have just thrown the man into the bathtub and gone from there, but now he was wary to move him any more than he already had. Even with just the most obvious of his senses, he knew Frank had taken a severe beating. His leg was very likely to be broken, there were burns up along his arms and he was bleeding from more places than Matt could keep track of.

 

Matt wouldn't have been able to survive the life he led without knowing a lot of first aid on his own. Thankfully, most of this wasn't severe; it was a lot of smaller things built into one big disaster. The one thing that was beyond his expertise was the leg, but his touch was sensitive enough that he could set the bone right if he tried – assuming the break was clean enough for that.

 

Frank was bent over the sink at Matt's urging, one burnt arm resting under the running tap while the other clutched the counter to keep himself upright. Whatever the acid was, it was still eating away at his skin.

 

Frank still hadn't said a word.

 

“What happened?” he asked. Funny how that came first, despite how what he wanted answered much more was: why did you come here?

 

Their relationship was a messy one. They didn't agree with one another, but it would be wrong to say that Frank hated him at all – if anything, Matt would be tempted to say much the opposite. He still remembered when Frank came to Ryker's after him. It was wrong to say Matt felt he owed Frank anything for that encounter, but it did make him more obliging than he should have been.

 

But why did Frank come here? It wasn't the same as Matt relying on Peter Parker, or making a phone call to Luke Cage. Frank had no allies here, and he certainly didn't take charity even when it was offered. Matt would have expected him to find a hospital and demand medical attention at gunpoint sooner than come ask Daredevil for assistance.

 

Frank's heart was usually steady as a drum. He was always terrifyingly calm, his pulse only spiking when their confrontations escalated into something far more violent. Now, here he was, and the sound was just a beat too fast for Matt to trust.

 

“Vulture.” Frank's voice was rougher than average when he replied. It might have just been the strain from his injuries, or maybe something happened to his throat. Matt couldn't be sure, and he guessed Frank wouldn't be talkative enough for Matt to find out.

 

Frank switched his arms, running the opposite one under the tap, and Matt gently pressed a towel against the cleaned skin. Fresh blood blossomed up immediately to stain the fabric; Matt could smell it. He'd have to wrap both Frank's arms. Sighing, Matt retrieved his bandages from the first aid kit. His supplies would probably run dry by the end of this.

 

“I'm guessing you don't mean Adrian Toomes,” he said, and Frank unsurprisingly said nothing. Matt silently bandaged Frank's arms, one after the other as he cleaned them under the sink. That done, Frank reached to turn the water off, and his hand fumbled for the tap, clumsily groping in search of it. The motion was far too sloppy for him to trust. Matt's brow furrowed and he frowned as he spoke.

 

“How much blood have you lost?” he asked. “Are you going to pass out?”

 

It would be like Frank not to say anything about it. Matt would rather know and lay him out now, rather than drag the Punisher's broken body into bed. It had been bad enough just moving him to the kitchen.

 

“No,” said Frank lowly, leaning more of his weight into the counter, and Matt was unconvinced.

 

“You're barely coordinated,” argued Matt. He would go ahead and move him to couch anyway – it wasn't as if Frank had the energy to put up a fight. Matt grabbed Frank's shoulder, intending to draw him away from the sink, but the other man's reaction made him still. Frank jolted, more than he should have, and Matt immediately withdrew his touch.

 

“What?” he asked. Did he hurt him? Matt didn't think Frank's shoulder was injured – that was the same place he'd grabbed when he guided Frank from the floor and into the kitchen, so he assumed it was safe. Frank hadn't protested then.

 

Frank made a noise, low and noncommittal, and he wavered on his one good leg. Matt felt a wave of frustration, nearly speaking again, but Frank got there first.

 

“Murdock.”

 

Frank's voice was quiet and Matt heard his heartbeat jump. Matt went very still, and his eyes widened when Frank spoke next.

 

The reason he jumped so much was because Matt startled him.

 

“I can't see,” confessed Frank lowly.

 

–

 

“How bad is it?”

 

They had moved in relative silence for treating the rest of Frank's wounds, speaking only small necessities when it came to direction. Matt bandaged all that he could and made a makeshift binding for his leg. It was all temporary solutions, but he doubted Frank would ever see a professional for this. Matt wondered how many old wounds lingered and how many bones were reset improperly in the history of Frank's 'career'. It was a wonder he hadn't fallen apart already.

 

Then again, maybe he was falling apart now. This would be one weakness that he could not overcome.

 

“Don't know,” Frank admitted. Matt had moved him to the couch, where he sat hunched and tense. He was obviously still in a great deal of pain, but he had waved away any painkillers Matt offered. “One might be for shit since he got his claws in; other just got burned. Could see enough to get myself here.”

 

Matt frowned. He still hadn't touched Frank's face and it was impossible for him to make a guess otherwise. A large part of him didn't want to test it.

 

“Got worse as I went,” continued Frank. “Might just be swollen up.”

 

“Might be,” agreed Matt simply, but he did not sound genuine. Frank would treat his wounds, and the swelling would eventually go down enough that he would be able to open them again, but then what? What happened if his eyes were ruined? Matt heard that acid hissing on Frank's flesh; it had eaten away at him. God knew what it would have done to his eyes.

 

Matt sighed softly and came forward. “I'm going to touch your face,” he said in forewarning. Usually, he would have asked someone permission for something as intimate as this, but the reasons behind the gesture were very far removed.

 

Frank made a small sound that must have been consent. Matt reached out, his fingertips finding his chin, then following along his stubbled jaw. He had been close to Frank before, but every time he'd made contact this direct, it was with violence. Delivering a punch to his face didn't create the same affect as this did.

 

Matt didn't shy away from what he was doing, and he didn't map out Frank's face or try to paint a picture of him in this mind; that wasn't what this was about. His fingers slipped up, very gingerly edging around his swollen eyes. The one he touched first had the burns: he could feel the scorched flesh and his charred eyebrow. Frank barely winced, which surprised Matt, since the skin beneath his touch was beyond tender. The second eye might have been better off. The wound was more direct, and Matt wagered Frank would have certainly felt it if the blow actually punctured and tore his eye out. However, serious damage might still have been done. It was impossible for Matt to tell.

 

Matt withdrew his hand, and he said nothing for a long moment. This was his answer: why Frank had come here. Still, Matt had trouble puzzling it out completely. He didn't know if Frank expected something out of him that would resolve this; the man was not an optimist (to say things lightly). Matt grabbed more bandaging, frowning to himself as he began to wrap them around Frank's damaged eyes.

 

After a careful pause, Matt spoke again. “I can't teach you to be like me,” he said outright. That needed to be made clear.

 

Frank didn't even hesitate. “Don't be stupid.”

 

Matt frowned but said nothing else on the matter. In the back of his mind, a dangerous thought began to fester: what happened to Frank Castle if he couldn't be the Punisher? He couldn't do his work without his eyes. Even having one eye damaged would greatly cripple him. Matt had one sneaking suspicion about what the alternative was if he couldn't fight his war, and he didn't speak it out loud.

 

He finished with the bandages, tying them off and stepping back. Frank lifted his own hands, adjusting them a little tighter, and Matt did not object.

 

“You can stay here,” he allowed with misplaced generosity. “Don't be adventurous. You made enough mess already.”

 

Frank grunted and he sunk back against the couch. Matt returned to the kitchen, cleaning up the stains of blood, and as he did he kept a careful ear on Frank. It didn't take long for his breathing to level out, and he was asleep. It was probably the pain that drove him to exhaustion. If he would just take some damn medication, it would have been easier.

 

Matt sighed and returned to the bedroom when he was finished. He didn't think he'd sleep, very much expecting to hear Frank making some mad dash out of here in the middle of the night. To his surprise, Frank didn't move an inch, and Matt's own exhaustion caught up to him.

 

–

 

While it was much less startling than the sound of breaking glass, running water woke Matt up all the same. He sat up, sleepiness making him slow to remember his current company. He groaned quietly when he did, rubbing tiredly at his face. The Punisher was still in his house, which was both concerning and relieving at the same time.

 

Matt got up, going through his routine methodically. He dressed himself and made his way down the hall, gently tapping his knuckles on the bathroom door.

 

“You shouldn't be in there by yourself,” he chided, and received no response. He sighed, brushing a hand back through his hair idly. It was a lost cause. “Do you need a hand?”

 

Again: silence. There was a pause before he heard the shuffling of Frank's movement. His injured leg was dragging behind him somewhat, slowing his steps as he came to the door.

 

Frank smelled much less of blood; that was a start. He had bathed, the familiar scent of soap was on him, and he must have changed a few of his bandages himself. How much, Matt found it hard to say.

 

“Do you?” repeated Matt when Frank was stubbornly silent. The man was incredibly difficult to care for. If it was anyone else, Matt would have known what to do. If Danny Rand came to him in a similar state, losing his vision, Matt would have been confident in knowing how to tend to him. With Frank, he had no idea.

 

Helping the Punisher was impossible.

 

“Still can't see,” said Frank at last, and Matt was not surprised. The swelling wouldn't have disappeared in one day. Frank knew that, he was smarter than that; the uncharacteristic anxiety did not sit well with Matt.

 

“Does that mean you need help?” Matt pressed stubbornly, and Frank finally gave in.

 

“Can't reach my back right,” he said, carefully stepping back to allow Matt entry. “Your kit's on the sink.”

 

Matt stepped forward, unsurprised. “Found that, did you,” he remarked. He did keep one stashed in the kitchen, the other in the bathroom. At this rate, both would be used up by morning.

 

Frank made a slight sound, and Matt caught him sliding his hand against the wall to orient himself. “Had to dig for it.”

 

The comment made Matt sigh. Not that it inconvenienced himself too much, given his extra senses, but order was important for his disability. Frank probably made a mess of the whole bathroom cabinet digging for the first aid. While it wasn't a bother to Matt all that much, it carried another concern. Frank had to learn all these things, and he had no powers to compensate. He was lucky to be in Matt's house already, where things were already set up in exactly this manner, but Frank couldn't live like this – not without giving up the only thing that defined him anymore.

 

Matt wondered how Frank got this far while Matt was sleeping. He didn't know the layout of Matt's house at all (or so he would hope not). It must have been guesswork that brought him here, and God knew how he managed to get into the shower on his own. Stubbornness likely fueled him above all.

 

“Just ask me next time,” he chastised. “If you make too much of a mess, then neither of us will be able to find anything.” What a pair they made.

 

Matt took care of the wound on Frank's back, only really concluding as he did so that Frank wasn't wearing all that much. Matt supposed Frank didn't find there to be much point when neither of them could see anything; Frank was not a modest person. Matt doubted he had anything to be shy about.

 

“It's done,” he told him, withdrawing from Frank and collecting the kit. He opened the cabinet and frowned to himself at its contents. Frank did knock things around to get what he needed, and shoved it all back in without any concept of order. Matt couldn't have expected anything else.

 

“Are you sure you don't want to see an actual doctor?” he asked. Matt knew the risks involved, and Frank's reasons for avoiding hospitals were even worse than Matt's, but this was a different situation. “Real treatment might change whether you save your eyes or not.”

 

To no surprise, Frank wasn't swayed. “No hospital,” he said bluntly.

 

Matt didn't push the subject. He simply nodded and he stepped back. “Need a hand out?” he asked, and Frank's head turned towards him. He would have been glaring, Matt would wager, if he was capable of showing it, and if Matt was capable of seeing it.

 

Matt held up a disarming hand, leaving the bathroom and closing the door behind him – basic courtesy, even if it didn't change all that much.

 

–

 

Matt couldn't decide if it was lucky or unlucky that he did not have work today. He stood by the kitchen table, warming his hands on a cup of coffee that he had no appetite for. He simply made it to keep himself busy until Frank finally emerged again.

 

When he did, it was slow. The combination of both his crippled leg and lack of vision held him back. Matt could hear his hand sliding along the wall as he moved, guiding himself, and he finally made his way into the kitchen. Matt said nothing for a moment, wondering if Frank knew he was here at all. He might have smelled the coffee at least; Matt made a whole pot, and he made it strong.

 

Frank's hand found the counter, and he led himself into the room with it to guide him. Listening – 'watching' – Frank was oddly captivating. His motions were slow and sure, without seeming overtly cautious. Those strong hands mapped out the space before him, step by step, and he paused when his fingers nudged against the spoon Matt had left next to the sink. He seemed surprised but not startled, his hand brushing over the object to determine just what it was before moving past it.

 

When he found the sink, Frank traced the rim until he found the tap. He turned it on, cupping his hand under the water and then guiding it up against his mouth. He drank messy handfuls, too much water dripping out between his fingers, and Matt frowned.

 

“Do you want a glass?” he asked and for the first time in his life, he heard the Punisher jump.

 

It was a small thing. His pulse spiked and his whole body twitched, jerking back just inches from the counter then grabbing it again. Slight as it was, Matt had startled him. Frank cursed under his breath and he turned himself around, the anger seeming to radiate off of him in waves.

 

“Should have said something,” he muttered.

 

Matt frowned a bit, watching as Frank continued to paw around the counter. “Do you want my advice?” he asked, trying to approach the issue as gently as possible. Frank scowled behind the bandages and did not answer. He likely was too sore about being so taken off guard. It must have felt amateur.

 

Matt supposed it was a little cruel that he didn't let Frank know that he wasn't alone. However, he had been curious. He wanted to see how Frank tried to compensate for his injury. In fact, it was a necessary cruelty, Matt supposed. Frank needed to know how vulnerable he was before he got any stupid ideas in his head.

 

Matt moved to the table, setting his coffee mug down. Frank seemed to hear that, his head tipping in his direction, but he didn't hear Matt stepping away. Still, he recognized something was happening. Having been trained to be very quiet, Matt made no noise, especially not in his bare feet.

 

Frank kept one hand on the counter to ground himself, his other extending slightly. It wasn't an open, reaching gesture, but rather a slight one, as if testing the waters. Frank didn't expose himself more than that. “Where are you, Murdock?” he asked, his voice quiet but audible.

 

Matt gave him nothing. As the silence stretched on, Frank had to realize that he had to leave the safe definition of the counter behind him in order to determine Matt's location. Once he did, Matt was not so kind. He stepped away from Frank's seeking advance, barely making a sound as he moved. Frank stumbled, grabbing the table to steady himself, and Matt could _hear_ him scowling.

 

“Where the _hell_ are you, Murdock?” Frank rumbled, his voice carrying the undertone of a growl. He was getting impatient, and because of that, he got clumsy. He swept his hand over the tabletop, too fast, and he knocked over the mug that Matt had left sitting on it.

 

Frank swore loudly this time, and Matt immediately regretted the very unfair lesson he inflicted on him. Frank was already bending to seek out the shattered pieces of ceramic, not even stopping to flinch when the angle strained his injured leg or when one sharp edge sliced into his thumb.

 

Matt winced at the scent of fresh blood and he came forward. “Don't,” he said, “here, let me...” But the moment he reached out, Frank shoved him back. It wasn't a graceful gesture, since Frank needed to give a wide arc of his arm to be sure he connected.

 

“Stupid,” Frank muttered. “Careless...”

 

Matt did nothing for a moment, waiting before he reached out again, laying his fingertips against Frank's wrist. “Let me,” he repeated, and this time Frank relented in a cold sort of defeat.

 

Frank sat down at the table as Matt picked up the broken pieces of the mug and wiped away the spilled coffee. That done, Matt joined Frank at the table, sitting opposite of him and folding his hands together. Frank was quiet rather than angry this time. He seemed resigned, but calmly so rather than any sense of self pity.

 

Matt suspected the worst.

 

“Say this is permanent,” Matt began. “And your eyes don't heal. What then?”

 

Frank didn't waver. “You know the answer to that.”

 

Matt winced; he had been right, and it bothered him more than he anticipated.

 

Why, though? Honestly, he could ask that about all of this on both Frank's side and his own. Why had Frank come here? Why had Matt let him stay? Frank hadn't expected Matt to have some miraculous solution. Matt did understand this more than anyone else, but Frank didn't usually opt for the sentimental solution. Losing his sight made him a vulnerable man. Watching him grope blindly through Matt's house was so open that it seemed unjust to have been witness to it, even if Matt had good reason.

 

Matt remembered how he felt when he lost his sight. He was just a child, and his heightened senses were nearly enough to drive him mad. He felt so weak, so terrified, so easily made helpless and lost. This was a special kind of being afraid, the kind that was impossible to understand without experiencing firsthand.

 

“I could help,” he offered suddenly, knowing it was a mistake right after the words left his mouth, and the response was just what he expected.

 

“No, you couldn't.”

 

Matt bowed his head. He had been afraid of that. “Then why did you come here?”

 

Did he think Frank was scared? Not at all. The idea of the Punisher being frightened was impossible –but so was the idea of the Punisher surviving without his sight.

 

Frank didn't reply, and he wouldn't no matter how many times Matt asked; he knew it. Matt's chest tightened and his hands squeezed tighter together. Slowly, he rose up from the table and approached Frank where he sat, words waiting on the tip of his tongue. The impulse seemed sudden, but felt natural at the same time.

 

“Let me touch your face?”

 

Frank seemed surprised, as much as he showed that (which was very little), but Matt heard him nod his consent. Even so, Matt didn't move yet. This was different than before, when he needed to feel the extent of Frank's injuries. This was much more deliberate. Breathing out deeply, Matt raised his hand and touched his fingertips to Frank's jaw.

 

Matt started slow. He slid his fingers along Frank's jaw, up until he reached his earlobe, before he swept back again, doing the same to the opposite side. Frank's jaw was broad and strong, and his skin had gained more stubble after just one night here, which didn't surprise him. His cheekbones were defined but uneven as Matt touched them – likely due to abuse – and his nose above all must have been broken countless times; Matt could remember smashing it in himself with his fists or clubs. It actually startled him somewhat to slide along the crooked bridge of it, his eyes widening minutely.

 

How much tear and strain Frank carried with him was astonishing.

 

Matt drifted lightly over the bandages, his fingers following over Frank's forehead (he could feel how Frank's brow was furrowed in concentration), then sliding into his hair briefly. It was short, but not quite as much as Matt would have expected.

 

All these touches were slow, deliberate, imprinting a picture of Frank Castle in his mind. Through it all, Frank's heartbeat was steady. He wasn't moved by this, even though Matt doubted the amount of intimacy was lost to him. Matt only touched a handful of people this closely. It was a very intense gesture which Matt did not offer lightly, and he could not deny any implication when the recipients were mainly the women who shared his bed. Still, Frank was calm – or he was until Matt's fingers brushed his lips.

 

It was slight, but Frank's temperature did heighten. Matt finished his task, doing one last slide of his hands down Frank's face, from his forehead and over his eyes, stroking over his cheeks and nose before stopping at his mouth. His fingers rested against a split lower lip, and he felt the hot rush of his breath over his skin when Frank opened his mouth to exhale. He could feel the heat of Frank's mouth, so close, his tongue just an inch away from Matt's fingertips.

 

Hn.

 

“Here,” said Matt, his voice more hushed than he intended. His unoccupied hand reached out, grasping Frank's wrist, and he guided it against his face. “You too.”

 

Frank seemed skeptical, but slowly cupped Matt's cheek in a callused hand. His skin was rough, and the drag of his thumb over his brow made Matt shiver involuntarily. Frank didn't follow the same methodical mapping that Matt did. He lifted both hands, one pressed to either side of Matt's face, framing him. The press of his palms against his cheeks made Matt's eyes flutter shut. Those big hands swept over his face then curled back, burying into his hair, and Matt bowed his head closer. Matt's hand was still on Frank's mouth, and he was greeted with a warm brush of his tongue against the pads of his fingers. Matt's breathing caught in his throat, and he did not move away.

 

“Castle...” he murmured, his voice wavering more than he would have liked. The grip in his hair tightened, and Matt found himself pulled downward, dragged into an embrace that was more of a bite than a kiss.

 

Matt stiffened at first, wincing when Frank's teeth dug into his lip, but when he opened his mouth to gasp, Frank's tongue came in instead. The warm, slick contact seemed to soothe away the pain of the bite that Frank had inflicted. Matt felt startled, dizzy, and his sightless eyes went wide.

 

That hadn't been what he meant to offer.

 

“Castle--,” he repeated, and he pulled back suddenly, drawing away by several steps. His body was far too warm and he didn't like how he was already short of breath.

 

There was a long moment of silence, where Matt wondered if he should speak. Frank did nothing, seeming to wait for him, but his patience was proven short. Shakily, Frank stood up, trying to follow after him. His injured leg dragged behind him when he stepped forward, and he reached his hand out slightly in search of him. When his first few paces found nothing, Frank resorted to his words. “Where the hell are you, Matt?”

 

It wasn't the same tone as before, which was demanding and full of irritation. Frank's tone was almost soft now – and he called him Matt. Not Daredevil. Not Murdock. Matt. That shouldn't have made such a difference.

 

“Here,” he said quietly. Frank's head turned towards his voice, and Matt reached out to grasp Frank's outstretched hand, anchoring him to something steady as he limped forward. Frank came up close, his thumb brushing the underside of Matt's wrist, and sensation shivered up his arm.

 

Frank turned his wrist, slowly sliding his palm up Matt's arm. The motion was steady and strong, strangely sensual, and it crept up until he buried his fingers into Matt's hair and pulled firmly, urging him to lean back.

 

Matt didn't fight.

 

After mapping out Matt's face once with his hands, now he seemed intent to do it with his lips. He kissed Matt's forehead, the bridge of his nose and his cheeks. He mouthed along Matt's jaw, nipping and sucking at the soft patch of skin beneath his earlobe. Letting out a shuddering exhale, Matt tipped his head back, unconsciously exposing more skin for Frank to explore with teeth and tongue. His mouth seemed warmer than it should have been, almost hot against Matt's skin, and he shivered when Frank's stubbled cheek scratched against his neck. It was dizzying, and Matt needed to find his reason before this went any further.

 

“Wait,” he managed, bracing his hand on Frank's upper arm. Frank tensed, as if expecting Matt to flee again, but that vanished when Matt continued. “Not here.”

 

A rumbling noise came out of Frank's chest, almost protest, but it was fleeting. He wouldn't be able to stand on one good leg for much longer. Matt took his hand, placing it on his shoulder so Frank had a guide, and then began to lead him away.

 

Moving without thinking, Matt brought Frank to his bedroom. Frank didn't begrudge Matt's guidance here, letting himself be urged down against the mattress. Matt paused to undress before climbed in after him, wary not to put weight on Frank where it might jar his wounds. His leg would be the biggest issue, and Matt was going to need to be careful about where he touched as he slipped up next to him. Straddling Frank, making him bear Matt's weight, would result in too much pain, and Frank's leg wouldn't allow him to be on top. For now, this would have to do.

 

Frank lifted his head when the mattress shifted under Matt's weight. His hand found Matt's arm, his posture noticeably tensing when he touched bare skin instead of the material of Matt's shirt. He slid his hand up, tugging on his upper arm to pull him closer, and Matt indulged him by bending down for a kiss. Frank breathed out one small, rumbling groan against Matt's lips, and he opened his mouth to him, letting Matt dip his tongue inside.

 

There were scents he attributed to Frank easily: gunpowder and sweat. Taste was different, and it wasn't what Matt would have expected. There was something earthy about it, like Matt had never felt before. He pushed deeper, seeking out more, and Frank shuddered beneath him. There was a strange rush of power at feeling that: someone as strong and unyielding as the Punisher weakening at his touch. Matt had never accomplished that with his fists, but this did it.

 

Matt smirked against Frank's mouth, and Frank was sharp enough to be able to tell. “What's funny?” he asked, breathless too, and Matt shook his head.

 

He pressed closer, giving Frank more room to touch him. When they were this close, eyesight didn't matter. They could follow each other with seeking hands and never lose track. Frank reached out, and he lay his hands against bare skin now. Again, Matt was subjected to Frank's rough, exploratory touches. He moved in broad sweeps of his palms, sliding downward over Matt's back as it arched for him. On the way up, he slipped his hands around and stroked over his chest, pausing to catch his nipples between his thumb and forefinger. Matt inhaled sharply and exhaled in a shuddering gasp, arching forward. Frank took the encouragement easily, teasing until the flesh stiffened under his touch. Whining faintly under his breath, Matt reached out to cup the back of Frank's head.

 

“Frank,” he groaned, urging him to shift closer. Frank obliged, and Matt used the grip in his hair to guide him up against his chest. Frank took the urging easily, closing his lips around his nipple, and Matt cried out faintly, his fingers twisting into Frank's short hair. “God--”

 

Frank moaned quietly, the vibration teasing through Matt's skin, and Matt hissed out his exhale. Frank was rough without taking it to the point of abuse. He alternated tongue and teeth, leaving Matt dizzy and painfully aroused. When he left one for the other, the feel of his saliva cooling against his skin made Matt whine faintly, shivers going down his spine.

 

“Where are you...” Frank pulled back just enough to speak, and Matt was left confused for a moment until he realized what Frank meant. His hand swept up to cup Matt's face, and Frank stroked his fingers back through his hair, the gesture far too gentle considering who it was coming from.

 

Carefully, Matt moved a shaking hand down Frank's chest. Frank was made of nothing but hard muscle and scars. He didn't think he could strip Frank completely – it would be too awkward with his injuries – but it was fine. This was more than enough. It was tricky working his belt open with one hand (especially considering how he was trembling), but Matt managed it. Groaning against Matt's chest, Frank lifted his hips up in open encouragement, helping Matt ease his pants down enough to free his already stiffened cock.

 

Matt curled his fingers around the base, and Frank shook underneath him. He let out a rasping curse, his good leg bracing against the mattress so he could thrust up into Matt's hand. He leaned up, his face tucked against Matt's throat as he panted for air. There was a small rasping approval under his breath, openly encouraging. Matt smiled to himself, and he realized that Frank still had his hand on his face – Frank could feel that expression. Slowly stroking him, Matt bent his head to claim another kiss, and Frank took command again, pushing his tongue deep into Matt's mouth.

 

“Good?” Matt asked, murmuring against Frank's lips, and the only response was a moan.

 

Pressing his free hand against Frank's chest, he gave him a small shove to push him flat against the bed again. Frank didn't resist, panting and moving his hips as Matt held him in his hand. Matt settled down, leaning just a bit of weight against him, and he touched Frank's face: his thumb pressed against the corner of Frank's mouth and his forefinger rested on his brow. Like this, Matt could read his expression easily, the way his face twisted up in pleasure and how his mouth parted for heavy breaths. There was something so raw in every bit of Frank while he was like this, right down to his sounds and his scent.

 

It was Matt's turn to gasp again when Frank's hands returned to his chest. His callused fingers were a much rougher sort of pleasure compared to the slick heat of his mouth, and both were equally enticing. Matt moaned weakly, shivering, and he leaned into the touch, feeling precum on his fingers as he stroked Frank. He pressed his thumb against the slit and Frank groaned raggedly, sinking down against the bed.

 

An idea settled into Matt's mind, and it was technically taking advantage, but he couldn't help himself. He nudged Frank's hands away, and while obviously confused, Frank didn't object. Matt shifted back, and gave Frank no warning before bending down and parting his lips around his cock.

 

Frank swore and threw his head back against the sheets, his entire body arching up towards Matt. He had no way to anticipate the touch, suddenly surrounded by Matt's mouth, and he thrust up on sheer instinct. Matt choked only a little, adjusting easily as he set a hand on Frank's hip to steady him. At this rate, Frank would strain his wounds all on his own. Matt swallowed around him, pliant and relaxed as Frank found a real rhythm, rocking his hips firmly under Matt.

 

Frank reached down, his hand burying into Matt's hair, but he didn't pull or try to guide his motions. He simply held on, connecting himself to him. Matt moaned a little, the vibration enough to make Frank tremble, and his hand tightened in Matt's hair.

 

Slowly, Matt drew Frank deeper and deeper. He was too much for Matt to take in all at once, so his fingers wrapped around the base to compensate as he moved on him. Frank was breathing harshly, his hand restlessly clenching in Matt's hair as he rolled his hips. He spoke Matt's name every so often, low and rumbling, and each time it made Matt shudder. There was something intoxicating about this to Matt as well, his own arousal strong and aching with every time he slid his tongue across Frank's prick.

 

Frank's motions grew unsteady, his body shaking underneath Matt, and Matt knew he wouldn't last much longer. Both hands buried tight into Matt's hair, and Matt didn't dare move – except for one thing. He reached his free hand up, back on Frank's face: brow and the corner of his lips. He wanted to see Frank's expression when he came.

 

Frank dug his good heel into the bed and bucked his hips once more before he gave in. He let out soundless groan of pleasure, the sound almost like a snarl, and Matt moaned softly underneath it. The thick taste of come invaded his senses and he swallowed it regardless, pulling off when Frank's hands went slack in his hair, idly twitching against his shoulders.

 

Matt pulled back and smiled. Frank was utterly slack now, his breathing short and his body trembling. The expression he made, the changes that came over his face, were intense and almost overwhelming. Matt could make such a clear image of it in his mind that it left him shuddering. Heat was pouring off of Frank in waves, and Matt soaked it up, his smile spreading when he felt Frank grab his arm.

 

“Come here,” Frank rumbled. Matt obliged, expecting to be pulled into a kiss, but Frank did far much more than that.

 

Frank dragged Matt up close and he shifted himself downward at the same time, yanking Matt up so he was straddling his shoulders. Matt stumbled, fumbling as he braced his hands on the sheets beneath him. Frank nuzzled against his inner thigh, and the scratch of stubble against such sensitive flesh made Matt shake. He almost questioned Frank's intent, but then his mouth was on his prick, and Matt's voice was lost to a sharp cry.

 

For a moment, Matt felt as if his mind had shorted out. He twisted his hands into the sheets beneath him, his lips parting without any sound coming out. He arched his back, struggling to keep himself still as he was lost to wild trembling. He knew this angle was harder, and it was so much easier to be overwhelmed if he moved too much, but it was hard to have restraint when Frank was taking him so deep.

 

His big hands were braced on Matt's thighs, his thumbs sliding up to idly rub against his hipbones. Everything he did seemed to be urging Matt to thrust, and there was only so long that Matt could hold out resistance. He gave a choked moan as he gave in, shallowly rocking his hips down against Frank's mouth. Frank moaned, clearly approving, and Matt's eyes fluttered before drifting shut. The more Frank encouraged, the harder he moved, and Frank never showed any sign of wanting Matt to slow down or stop. He just took whatever Matt gave, letting himself be used for this without restraint.

 

“Good,” Matt gasped weakly, his hand shakily moving down to clutch at Frank's hair. “So good, Frank...”

 

Matt simply couldn't hold out for as long as Frank. His senses made him too vulnerable and every aspect of even the slightest motion was far too magnified, too intense for him to resist for very long. Matt cried out, shaking wildly, and he writhed above Frank as he came. The sound he made was embarrassing, something closer to a sob than a moan, and he lost the strength to hold himself up properly.

 

He rolled aside so he wouldn't fall on Frank, twitching and gasping for breaths as his orgasm continued to assault his senses. The aftershocks were always intense for him, dizzying and causing him to lose direction. Frank shifted up, drawing Matt closer again, and he let himself be held. The embrace anchored him somewhat, especially with the steady sound of Frank's heart soothing him. Chapped lips brushed his forehead, and Matt smiled faintly, pillowing his head on Frank's shoulder.

 

He was asleep within seconds.

 

–

 

Waking up alone shouldn't have been surprising.

 

Matt sat up, and was slow to realize what was missing. It was only when he heard the other body moving through the next room that he remembered, and he hurried to his feet. He pulled on some pants – token modesty – and left to find Frank occupying the bathroom again. He sighed a bit, and stepped inside without bothering to knock. He felt the steam of the shower; Frank must have just finished up, and those clothes he was putting on definitely did not smell like Frank's. The Punisher also raided his closet. Wonderful.

 

“What did I tell you about doing this by yourself?” Matt asked, but he shouldn't have been surprised. He sighed, moving to reach out at pluck at the shirt Frank had thrown on. “Do my clothes even fit you?”

 

“Not really,” responded Frank bluntly. “I look like an ass.”

 

Matt grinned a little, until what was actually spoken came through to him, and the expression faltered slightly. It wasn't just a turn of phrase. Given what he sensed of him, now that he paid closer attention... Matt felt his stomach clench. “Your eyes...?”

 

“Sore,” Frank admitted, “and blurry, but they work.”

 

“Oh.”

 

Matt frowned a bit. That wasn't the reaction he was expecting from himself. It should have been good news, but it didn't feel like it at all. His thoughts darkened and Matt surprised himself. Wishing something like that on anyone was cruel, but in Frank's case it was actually for the better: it was the only way he would ever stop. It wasn't going to be a matter of endless war or ending himself; Matt had offered Frank something else instead.

 

Matt didn't bother lying to himself: the reasoning was selfish.

 

“You could still stay,” Matt said, very stupidly and also very seriously. His mouth got ahead of his mind, but he meant it.

 

Frank wouldn't like that. Matt was ready to be lectured about the sentimentality then thrown to the wolves. Frank reached out, and Matt expected something other than the gentleness that followed. He shivered a little as Frank's fingers slid through his hair, his thumb brushing the shell of his ear.

 

“No,” he said bluntly. “I couldn't.”

 

Matt almost argued, but he knew better. There was no budging this man; Frank was practically made of stone. He left the bathroom, still limping but better than before, and Matt followed him on the way out. Frank opted for the main door, rather than the personal entrance he had made out of Matt's back window.

 

This would be the end of it. Matt didn't expect a kiss or much in the means of goodbye, but Frank did pause before he left for good.

 

“I'll come back to see you,” Frank said, shutting the door behind him. It took a moment for it to register, but once it did, Matt scoffed at the wording.

 

He did that on purpose.


End file.
